


shatter

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, M/M, mentions of mental issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On madness, greed and weakness. Melkor. Trapped within a body of flesh, lost among the sensations of the senses, unwilling to adapt, a poisoned and poisonous soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shatter

The entire fortress smells of despair and agony, of long-rotten flesh and festering wounds; a stench hangs in the air of staleness and a rusty tang of old blood, coppery, almost sickeningly sweet. It encompasses every hall, every chamber on its way up from the dungeons. It fills the lungs, teases the nostrils, spreads everywhere in choking tendrils. Along come also the sounds: echoing off the stone walls, screams and sobs and laughs and hoarse commands, the noises which murder the silence and overflow in the dark, stifling confines of the Angband stronghold.

Melkor hates the smells, the noise; he hates that he can no longer shift into a form capable of dismissing the stimuli from the outside world. Instead, he is trapped in a shell of mortal flesh, susceptible to all those petty sensations. So weak. So pathetic for the mightiest of the Valar to be brought down to this, to be the victim of the same ailments which plague lesser beings! Yet so he finds himself, bound to a body which he is unable – _unwilling_ – to understand. It is a curse, it has to be, but he has no thought how to lift it.

He may never be able to lift it.

With the curse came the senses and Melkor hates them, all of them. He hates that the snow high in the mountains is cold on his skin and that the great rumble of thunder deafens his ears. He hates that raw flesh tastes of iron and that iron sits heavy in the form of a crown on his brow. He hates that everything is vibrant and vivid in colour, that even his own creations: the rivers of molten rock and liquid fire that flow beneath the stronghold, the streams of lava so readily used in the forges – that even they are a blinding myriad of reds and oranges and yellows and blacks, so offensive to the eyes. More than anything, he hates the pain which now accompanies him at all times: the throbbing, pulsating sores in his hands, charred and burnt under the illusion of untouched, white skin.

Sometimes, even he is uncertain if the pain is real or imagined; if the wounds inflicted by the infernal touch of the jewels adorning his crown are still there or if it is his mind that causes his hurts. When he examines his fingers, he is unable to tell if the burns he sees exist or if he projects them on his flesh out of some inner turmoil which he cannot explain.

'Mairon,' he asks of his Lieutenant on the day when the fortress is relatively calm and the war seems so far away, 'tell me: my hands, what do they look like?'

The dark skin of the Maia's body is pleasant to behold, like the bare earth devoid of the parasitic creations of Yavanna; but his hair is like fire, wild and untamed and vibrant as it surrounds Mairon's head in a vivid halo of flames and sparks. There is gold smeared under his eyes and inside his gaze when he looks up at Melkor and speaks, bold and fearless, loyal and eager to please:

'They are big and strong, my Lord,' he says first. His eyes shine in a kind of an ardent rapture when he dares touch Melkor's hand with his own long fingers. Then he continues, head bowed as though a sudden bout of shyness struck his soul,

'Always cool to the touch, like the chilly air on top of the world or deep within the caverns of the Earth, but dry and smooth, as though the finest silks. Your hands are the hands of a King, my Lord.

'White and unmarred,' he whispers hoarsely, all of a sudden passionate, hungry in his fervour, and his fingers are hot against the skin of Melkor's hand, pulsating with a rhythm not unlike a mortal heartbeat.

Melkor draws back his hand sharply and turns his back on the Lieutenant. Rage fills his thoughts: how dare the Maia touch him so presumptuously! How dare he deem himself worthy of such a forward action! And yet, another truth swiftly overtakes his mind.

_White and unmarred._

'I have no further need of you,' Melkor says softly. He wishes not to have Mairon linger in his presence. The company of his Lieutenant, usually welcome, now feels almost oppressive; as though there were something about Mairon that could threaten him, as though he were in danger. He is not. He shall not cower, fearful in front of one who serves him. And yet.

'My Lord,' Mairon says, loyal as ever.

Yet even as he leaves, there is an aura of possessive greed about him which makes Melkor crave the safety found in loneliness. Only when he is granted that reprieve does he look down upon his hands again and take note of the burns. He sees them still, clear and obvious; the skin is charred and blackened at the fingertips, split open in cracks, a stark contrast against the whiteness where the flesh is intact. Moving his fingers hurts. Touching anything hurts. Even undisturbed, the burns hurt, and it makes no sense if Mairon cannot see them. Are they real? Are they not?

If he cannot trust the senses of this mortal body that entraps him, what even can he trust?

Frustrated, he paces the expanse of his chambers, searching for a single thing which would take his mind off of the dark musings. This is mostly in vain, because he keeps very few items in the vast space he occupies: the bed which he used to have no use for until he learned that the mortal flesh does have limits; a table and a chair which sometimes serve Mairon when the Lieutenant comes directly to him with new ideas and plans and _multiple_ maps to help visualize them; a floor-length mirror-

_Black and white._

Before, when time was nothing, before the Silmarils, he did not use to recognize colour and he had no need for it. What he saw was simple: a chaotic swirl of grey in thousands of different shades, enough to tell one from another but insignificant altogether. Colours came with the Silmarils, and like them, they hurt more than they do not; and he craves them, and he abhors them, and he wishes he could incorporate them into his own form and make them belong to him like he has done with the Silmarils. Alas, he is as he had always been: himself devoid of all colour, with pure white flesh and perfectly black hair and charred hands, and. He is out of place. Even in here, in his fortress which smells of rotting blood and resounds with pained screams, in this place where his word is the only law – he is out of place.

He disrobes in front of the mirror and examines his reflection. His body is shapely, he thinks, although he does not understand how a lump of flesh, bones and hair appears attractive to the senses of others. He sees it for what it is: a shell which homes the spirit and allows for spreading of influence over creatures who are unable to survive the full glory of the mightiest of the Valar. Still, he thinks his form aesthetically pleasing to the eye, like a particularly well-crafted trinket come to being from the talented hands of a jewel-smith.

 _Fëanaro_ , he remembers all too well the whisper of the name. _The Spirit of Fire_ , the most gifted of all the Eldar, the cursed one, the beautiful one: it was him who at one time created colour which now taints Melkor's vision, for the white light of the Silmarils is of his making. Until this day, Melkor feels a deep love in his very being for the elven craftsman, a love he cannot easily tell from hatred, a love which was rejected and denied to him; and he shudders at the clear memory of the sneer of contempt and the look of disgust that crossed Fëanaro's face once before, as he realized Melkor's intent and ridiculed him for it. There is a feeling uncoiling in his body of warming flesh, deep within, inexplicable, incomprehensible; it seems to spread from the abdomen to the legs which begin to tremble, to the limb which he knows not the use of. Helpless he is to the sensations that cloud his mind and disrupt his thought: the stirrings of something primal, but foreign, something...

This is what Mairon desires from myself,he understands, taken aback, more so confused for knowing himself now capable of emulating the physical urges he used to dismiss as something entirely reserved for lesser beings.

It used to be so, a tiny part of him is aware, he did not use to have such a queer reaction to the outrageous recollection of the unfair treatment from who should have been overjoyed to worship him instead of detesting him so fiercely; his flesh did not use to fill with warmth at the memories of utmost humiliation, his hands did not use to tremble at the imaginary visions of an Eldar jewel-smith's nimble fingers working his body like a carefully crafted masterpiece. What it would be like, he can hardly picture even in fantasy, and a sudden idea forms:

Mairon can teach him. Mairon, whose love and adoration border on obsession, Mairon who would watch him and observe and never leave him out of sight for long. Mairon for whom there exists naught a thing he would not be willing to give or do to make his lord happy and content.

He lets out an inaudible sigh when he recognizes the want in himself to call upon his Lieutenant and use him to his will like this: and he knows it for a violation, because there is another in his thoughts whose memory makes him react in this unspeakable manner and not Mairon, Mairon whom he has always held dear, whose devotion he treasures and whose advice he heeds, Mairon who is the pinnacle of potential, Mairon who could be _anything_ -

but not this, he should not be this, not a mere instrument to show his Master how to derive pleasures from the sensations known to the flesh. Yet still, treacherous, the idea persists, festering in Melkor's mind, poisoning the purity of desire with filth and insanity. Long forgotten are the woes of before, the irritations of hearing and smelling and seeing things he never used to deem useful; for now another of those trifles becomes the foremost thought in his head, the dominating force behind all actions he may be willing to take. Flesh tingles where blackened, charred fingers brush against skin in accidental manner, and new ideas and new urges take hold, of another's tan hands on his white flesh, of another's body worshipping his own and granting it the pleasures hereto forbidden – unwanted – unrealized.

'Mairon,' he calls out softly, his deep voice a rumble of consonants drawn out and held on his tongue in the precise way he knows to make his Lieutenant's blood boil in a most indecent manner; and the call may be barely audible to all, but to Mairon himself, it reverberates throughout the halls, resounds in an incessant echo in all of the Maia's being which is tied to Melkor in the ways of Mairon's own choice.

 _I shall not demand your loyalty_ , Melkor had once declared, but still loyalty he has been given and forced to accept, and he holds it in himself and through himself shares it with Mairon. Their souls are joined since the day an oath of the purest form was exchanged and what Melkor wants Mairon to hear or feel, Mairon hears and feels.

Long does he wait for Mairon to return to his chambers, long does his Lieutenant tarry, but lost in the thoughts of sinful depravity which he is unable to explain or understand, Melkor does not notice the time which has passed between the call and Mairon's arrival. What he notices are little things about Mairon when the Maia beholds him: the widening of his eyes filled with a burning inferno of liquid gold, the darkening of his cheeks as a blush blooms hotly all over his face, the clenching and unclenching of fists and the quickening of breath; and Melkor attempts to offer Mairon an inviting look, one which he thinks his Lieutenant may appreciate even more so than he appreciates the view. Yet his attempt is vain as Mairon charges at him before the intent fully shows on Melkor's face; and for a moment Melkor is close to panic when Mairon's too-warm-too-hot-too-strong body connects with his in a display of untamed force and when the Maia pulls at his hair almost-painfully to capture his lips in a rough kiss-

It is not what it should be, Melkor thinks, it is not what he expected; where from the beginning of time he remembers innocence, he now meets with violence, dark and powerful and focused. There is naught of joy in this. The kiss tastes of nothing familiar, the arms restraining him feel like chains around his limbs, the heat of the body pressing so closely against his will surely consume him, kill him, destroy him, and he _hates_ that he craves this-

Mairon pulls away with a groan, frustration contained within it resounding in the empty walls of Melkor's chambers, accompanied by Melkor's heavy breathing; already the Vala misses his Lieutenant's aggressive assault even as his entire being screams in outrage at this sacrilegious act, this blasphemy,

_I am to be your God, your Master, I am the mightiest of the Valar, how dare you touch me like this, how dare you make me feel like this-_

and this is too confusing, too insane, and he has half a mind to send the Maia away again and suffer this on his lonesome. But Mairon is looking at him, daring and bold and fearless, measuring him with a gaze filled with something, with _greed_ , calculating and unnerving; and finally, he says,

'I will satisfy your lust, my Lord,' and it is a dark promise, sweet and bitter all the same on his tongue, and Melkor wishes to tell him that the lust is not in him, but in the Lieutenant himself and this is but a gift from the Master to his loyal servant. He does not. It would be a lie.

'I will make my Lord forget the foul face which started this,' Mairon whispers hotly, and does he know about Melkor's vision of Fëanaro, hateful and spiteful and contemptuous, how does he know, how, 'and I will have my Lord forget all else but my touch, my kiss, my caress. I will have my Lord taste the exquisite pleasure of the flesh and become addicted to it, and crave it always, from me, only from me.'

His lips form words in a way which Melkor cannot look away from. They spill from his mouth as though carefully woven gold threads, molten first and then shaped into lavish masterpieces. Mairon is not one to spare much effort on trinkets and decorative works, yet his speech is as though the work of a goldsmith, rich and abundant and exquisite.

'Do it,' Melkor orders in reply, closing his eyes and trembling at the ghost of a touch he feels against the skin of his hip where Mairon allows his fingertips to trail for short moments. Already he can feel the anticipation of some gratifying result which is sure to come from this unexpected encounter, and it clouds his mind with, yes, lust, the same kind of greed he knows from Mairon's thoughts of himself. This is lust: the weakness of the flesh which causes him to abandon all reason, to seek fulfilment in defiling and debasing the purity of the connection he has with his First, his beloved Maia, the one who would give anything to him-

'Oh, I will, my Lord,' Mairon speaks to his ear, a hoarse whisper that does nothing to quell the hunger inside of Melkor.

And then, softly, 'but that is not for tonight,' Mairon says and retreats and leaves without a glance back at Melkor, and how, how dare he, how, why? His footsteps resound lower and lower until they become silent, his presence away, gone, his touch, and Melkor stands against the stone wall and shivers at its coldness against his naked flesh; the stench of rotting blood reach his nose and make him dizzy. For an instant, his vision explodes with infernally vivid colours before it returns to the dull safety of the greys he is surrounded in when in the tower. The sounds from the entire fortress seem to pick up, become a noisy cacophony of screams, shouts and laughter, more laughter, ah, are they laughing at him, at his own weakness, at the Lord who has fallen so far at to all but beg his servant for physical pleasure that nothing could be gained for- No, no, they would not dare, this is surely Melkor's own mind playing tricks on him, and he stands humiliated and defeated so easily by his Lieutenant, still wanting, still desperate; and this, too, he hates, this thing which lesser beings so enjoy, this _disgusting_ craving for the satisfaction of the flesh-

And Mairon does not come back for this night nor the next, but he returns on the night after that, heedless of his Master's wrath: he needs only force a borderline painful kiss on Melkor's lips to wrap that anger around himself like a blanket of silk, and he needs only touch everywhere he wishes to have his misbehaviour forgiven. His hands are hot and eager in their exploration of the cool flesh of Melkor's, his tongue follows suit in mapping out the expanses of white skin; his nimble fingers find spots which build up enough pleasure to drive Melkor to an edge of black insanity, all that without once stopping, as though he knows well what he is looking for, as though he has done this before; and

_jealousy_

a feeling flares up in Melkor, dark, furious, and he wants to hurt Mairon for being unfaithful, for daring to have acted out on his desires with someone else – it matters not if this is true, he wants to punish, to cause pain – and his thoughts are full of fire and defiance and hatred, and he calls out, _Fëanaro_ , and then Mairon does something and it hurts and it anchors him and it sends him falling over the edge and-

'Mine,' Mairon hisses in his ear, a blazing inferno in his eyes and in his soul, choking Melkor and tearing him apart, shattering him into pieces which will never again make a whole; and around them, the world shudders in a fearsome rumble of earthquake.

It will happen again.

He sees himself in the mirror, sees the distorted reflection washed out by the light of the Silmarils resting heavy in the iron crown on his brow. In this kind of light, all his comeliness is gone: his skin takes on a shade of sickly green-grey-blue, like the smoke above a burning corpse pit, like the ashes leftover in a crematorium, like a bruise that will not heal; and his hands are black and charred and festering, oozing a dark thick liquid which may be blood, may be poison. May be both. Rotting and spreading decay all over the world at his feet. From those hands, Melkor realizes, originates the Taint, the convulsive corruption which morphs all beings it reaches into distorted images of what they could have potentially become. He stands at the source of that grotesque transformation, he appears as both its harbinger and prophet: the mightiest of the Valar or, indeed, the one who fell the lowest.

Yet even as he is aware of this, a hopeful idea gnaws at Melkor's mind, easing him into a more peaceful state somehow, more thoughtful: in Mairon's eyes, he is perfect, pure and unmarred. No burns devour his hands, no venom pours from his flesh into the exhausted matter of the world forced into shape by the tireless efforts of the Valar confined to their own land somewhere far away; as long as Mairon continues to worship and adore him, as long as this vision of Melkor exists in his Lieutenant's view, it is the truth. And Melkor would not believe this, he should not, for what power does Mairon hold that could stop a curse which is enough to haunt a Vala – but yet he realizes it would take an end of a world and more ere Mairon lie to him, willing or forced: such is his love and loyalty; and so the poison which spills freely from Melkor's hands and drowns the image of the world he had envisioned must be nothing but a conjured image in his own mind.

He knows not whether the source of such visions is himself or some foreign influence.

'I alone shall know the taste of true madness,' Melkor admits to his reflection, lost in contemplation, melancholic. His body no longer filled with the fleeting insanity of lust, he breathes calmly in and out as he takes off the iron crown from his head and lays it carefully on the night table. The piece of furniture was crafted by Mairon out of steel, a waste of resources and yet a pleasing one; it looks as though made specifically to hold the weight of the crown and the three jewels that shine even through the dark matte cloth they are covered with. Yet now the light is dimmer and Melkor beholds his mirror reflection again, no longer blurred by the sharp glow of Feanor's creations, and his tired eyes now see himself differently.

Weak. Bound with the failings of a body of flesh. Held to one form which will soon become unfit to contain a spirit so powerful as his: and so it will lose that power, spill it and let it be drained, until what remains is but a shadow, a memory of the first and the mightiest of the Valar. Yes: in this moment, Melkor clearly foresees the future which will inevitably come to pass. Slowly, surely, his being will be lost, degenerated into a state that even Mairon, cured of his blind, loyal love or obsession, will recognize it for what it is:

A failure.

'So it shall be,' he says to himself, accepting his fate with but a single sigh of grief.

When the day rises upon Arda, all dalliances of the night turn into dark plotting and imperishable hatred. Another century, another eternity will pass: once it began, the passage of Time shall never again be stopped. It will mean nothing. Insanity, madness, obsession, greed, those are not cured by the forces of passing years and decades. No. As days grow colder and darker still, so will Melkor's mind.

Until it shatters and the world shifts to accept the transformation and adapt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i should stop writing this pairing i am no good at it  
> also wow this was pointless


End file.
